The Pyle Inside

What am I to you?

What are all of us to you?

I sit here crammed in a box,

While you poke and pull at my skin,

Testing to see if you can get that highlight to glow just a bit brighter,

To see if you can make that lipstick last just a bit longer,

To see if you can create a concealer to hide a bit more of your age,

And your cruelty

And after you violate me,

Pouring fluids in my eyes,

That burn, that sting,

While I’m crying for help,

Screaming for something to change,

For someone to help,

While the same is happening to every other animal in your white room,

With your white lab coats,

And your masks,

We can’t even look you in the eye,

You must feel something.

What am I to you?

You must feel something?

Right?

You torture me and take me from my home,

You don’t stop,

You don’t feel anything,

As long as you get your money at the end of the day,

And by the end of that day

You decide you don’t need me,

Well not alive,

I am better off to you,

In little pieces.

Dissected.

I can’t protest now,

I can’t cry out,

I hope you hear our cries in your dreams,

I hope it stays with you until your last breath,

I hope you feel something.

Anything.

But at least,

At the very least,

You can look just a bit better for your Friday night date.